Marian stayed loyally by Robin's side, as he went from cottage to cottage through Locksley, greeting their villagers. He did not admit to any of them that anything about him had changed, but when he met the Scarlets and showed them the same formal restraint he had shown to others, Will and Djaq immediately knew there was something terribly wrong.
Robin grew alarmed when his wife openly admitted his memory lapse to the young couple he felt he had only just met.
"You don't mind, Djaq," Marian said to the pretty foreign woman, "that I sent for Matilda instead of you? She knows more about the practices of local witches."
"Of course I do not mind," the Saracen woman responded, in a calm, soft, heavily accented voice. "The important thing is for Robin to recover. Has Matilda mentioned when that might happen?"
Robin felt like swearing under his breath. His wife was discussing his condition with these serfs, so he believed, as though he wasn't even present. He felt his temper rise up within him again.
"Excuse me," he said, inclining his head slightly with respect to his wife, before marching away. He had no wish to remain and listen to them continue to discuss him.
Miller, baker, cobbler, blacksmith...He tried to smile and meet his people, who in turn, greeted him with warmth and affection. To everyone, he was "Master Robin," not "My lord," or the less formal "Sir," denoting his status as a knight. And then he reached the potter's cottage.
A small, plain faced young blond woman manned the kiln, firing clay pots. As soon as she saw him, she stopped her work and ran toward him. The impact of her hurtling herself into his arms knocked the wind out of him.
"Robin!" she cried happily.
"Good day," he uttered nervously, removing her clinging arms from around his chest.
The lass stood looking at him fondly... far too fondly, to his mind, but at least she wasn't leering at him, the way the witch had.
"How are you?" he asked, hoping she might supply her name.
"Better now," she said. She wore a lavender colored gown, and had fixed her hair with a braid where it grew from her forehead. It appeared to him as though she had tried to make herself attractive.
"That's a very pretty dress," he said kindly, "for firing pots."
She seemed to drink in his words, as though he had paid her an enormous compliment. "I thought you'd come see me today," she simpered.
Robin grew more and more uneasy. The girl acted as though she owned a part of him. He prayed it wasn't so, but his curiosity could take it no longer.
"And that is special to you because...?" he asked.
"I'm your girlfriend!" the lass cried, believing in her deluded mind that it was so.
Robin almost tripped over his own feet, stepping backwards, in his hurry to get away.
No! He couldn't believe it! How could he be such a cad, as to cheat on that amazing woman who was his wife? Especially with this unremarkable, unintelligent woman from his village? Although there were many things he could not remember, he knew better than to commit adultery, or to have improper relations with a woman he felt sworn to protect like a father. He hated himself at that moment.
Well, whatever he'd done in the past, he at least had the power now to put things right and start anew. Perhaps that was the reason the Lord had taken his memory, he thought.
"I'm sorry," he told the blond lass. "Whatever happened between us in the past, ends today. I don't want to hurt you, but I'm a married man, and I will be true to my wife."
"But what about us?" she cried, her face angry and bitter.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "It's over."
He turned and began walking away, angry at himself for putting her in such a position. He only prayed she wouldn't seek revenge and tell his wife, who seemed completely ignorant of the relationship he must have had with the scraggly haired blond.
Behind him, he heard the woman scream out a soldier's curse, then heard a thundering crash. Spinning around, he saw her hurling large stones at her family's own kiln. Suddenly, the kiln split apart, and came crashing to the ground. Tongues of fire leaped into the air, catching onto the dry thatched roofs of neighboring cottages.
The village of Locksley was on fire, and its lord leapt swiftly into action to take command and organize a bucket brigade.